


What's In A Name

by TheCreepShow



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 11:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6327376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCreepShow/pseuds/TheCreepShow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gazelle's backstory, or how she became the deadliest assistant an eccentric billionaire could ask for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's In A Name

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is my first piece for this fandom but I was watching Kingsman the other day and realized the only characters I really gave a damn about were Gazelle and Harry. There has been shit ton on Harry but I really need to know Gazelle’s deal.

You don’t let anything weigh you down. 

Not ever since you were born. Being born with fibular hemimelia affecting both your legs, your thighs ending and nothing to hold them up. You don’t see anything wrong with this. Not even when you first became aware you were “different” and definitely not now. 

Apparently, your parents did see something wrong. Between them seeing you as “broken” and already being poor, they assumed they could not care for you. You were left to the state with nothing but a name. 

Gabriella Garcia. 

But just like your parents didn’t want you, you didn’t want that last name. You barely wanted the first name, but you kind of liked the way it sounded (and though you wouldn’t admit it, you liked to think that by giving you such a pretty name it meant your parents did care a little about you. Maybe). Every foster home you ever got sent to, every new school you ever started, you introduced yourself as “just Gabriella.” 

And though inevitably you were often referred to as just “the wheelchair girl” or “girl with no legs” by your more blunt schoolmates, you knew you were more than that. 

You didn’t need anything else.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
You are 12 years old when you get your first set of legs. 

You were still in the system, being bounced around. Many foster homes were nice enough, but it wasn’t long before your time was up. 

Adoption never seemed to be a discussion for you or any of the social workers you’ve met over the years. Just as well; you couldn’t trust that any pair of would-be parents wouldn’t drop you like yours did. 

Not that you needed anyone. 

But this foster home had gotten some connections with a major university. The graduate students were making major strides with prosthetic limbs, and someone had heard about you. Everyone was too eager to give you these legs, 3-D printed and made for optimum movement. There was even an article in the city newspaper about it. 

Looking back you realize you were the perfect candidate for this: a poor orphan, non-white, little girl. Someone pretty, but plagued by many comments that ended with “if only…” But now you could be given a new lease on life! Wasn’t science amazing? 

The perfect politically correct poster child for their viral campaign. 

And yet, your new legs were…thrilling. You always thought that having the rest of your legs would be heavy, but these were lighter than air, made out of some sort of aerodynamic metal you couldn’t remember at the time. Despite their metallic shine, despite their non-conventional shape, and despite never having them before, they felt like the one other thing you never had and thought you didn’t need.

They felt like home. 

These weren’t something that were going to weigh you down. These just presented new options.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
When you first said you wanted to do track, your foster mom let out a sharp laugh. You were 14. 

What a bitch. 

“Oh honey I didn’t mean to laugh like that,” she said, trying to cover her misstep. “I was just surprised. You haven’t even been walking that long, and you want to run? You sure don’t half-ass anything do you?” 

You stare at her, narrowing your eyes. You consider a witty retort, something along the lines of “racing and running has been a sport for thousands of years and just because you have no desire to move beyond the confines of your house does not mean all such history of it has been negated.” 

But you don’t say that. You’ve gotten used to holding in your anger. 

“No,” is all you say. 

The directness takes this woman aback. Perhaps she is surprised at your boldness, at your confidence to try this activity. Perhaps it is the coldness with which you said it. How even after a year of living with this woman and her 2 other children every conversation you have with her seems to be done a thousand miles away from one another. 

Perhaps, you wonder, she notices a hint of something behind your eyes. Something dark that has been brewing and that you feel as a burn more than a named emotion. It sneaks up at you at times, the heat spiking, but not enough to make you do anything. 

At least not yet. Maybe it would be quelled if you had an outlet. 

“Well,” she begins, “physical activity never hurt anybody.” 

You doubt that is true but you nod anyway.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
You’re 18. You’re a track star and have a black belt. You are being courted by multiple universities to come play for their teams. 

Your nickname in school and various athletic tournaments is Gazelle; You like it. You think it would be cool if that became your official nickname when you become a world-known athlete. 

You assume that it’s “when” not “if” it happens. 

All the coaches that have been recruiting you say that you’re the next big thing to happen. 

“You’re an inspiration. People don’t even need to see your legs. They just think it’s all you,” they all keep saying, while you grit her teeth behind a polite, closed smile. 

Of course it’s all you, you think. Your legs maybe not be entirely made of bone and flesh but they are still yours. You loathed the idea of becoming inspiration porn to the masses who couldn’t get off their lazy asses. You had turned down speaking gigs and endorsements for that very reason. You were not going to get to the top in order to score sympathy points for an organization. You weren’t going to deal with comments about being given an “unfair advantage.” No, you were going to get there by being the best and being a bad ass. 

And then that gala happened. 

At this point, you barely remember how it started. It was some networking party or another for young athletes. You were wearing this cute black little number, showing off your legs: the tanned toned thighs, and the silver sci-fi looking prosthetics that you were proud of. You never wanted to hide them. You had leaned down to check on them, admiringly. A representative from a university, one renowned for their sports teams and had produced multiple Olympians but you could never remember the name of, ambled over to you. He had been around a couple times before, sniffing about, trying to get you to come the university. You were seriously considering it. 

He compliments you on your time from your last race. You thank him. There is so much booze on his breath that just the air from his mouth has an alcohol level over the legal limit. That’s when he leans over. 

“You know, you’re a shoo-in for our team. You’re a good runner but everyone knows only the pretty ones make money. Even though you’re crippled, you’re so sexy there will be a poster of you in every teen boy’s room. I know I would.” 

And then he winks. 

All you remember is red. 

Now, at first, you thought the reports were exaggerated. You couldn’t have possibly been SO mad that you hit hard enough to break his jaw and then knee him to break several ribs. And then keep going until you had to be peeled off of him. But then you saw the video footage that went viral and realized you had done just that. Apparently that burning feeling was an explosion waiting to happen. 

The calls for endorsements and recruitment dry up immediately.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
You’re 20. It’s been two years since the party and even though no one is sharing the video anymore, you are still on the shit list of anyone with any connection to the sports world. No one knows who you are, except for all the people who have the power to make your career. 

Figures. 

You’re only an “inspiration” as long as you’re perfect every minute of every day. People don’t seem to find a person who got arrested for assault as a worthy role model. Like other athletes are better. But you guess you can only be a liability in one way. 

Either way, you’re out of work. You take a couple of odd jobs. You hate them all, but deal with the stares and questions because a girl has gotta live. 

The only remotely enjoyable jobs you have are the underground fighting rings you partake in. These are sick brawls, happening in abandoned warehouses, with all the petty criminals in the city gambling and out for blood. Of course your opponents always under estimate you, due to your stature and legs. Though some make a fuss that your prosthetics were an “unfair advantage” most seemed to want to prove their toughness by saying that they would and could beat up the undefeated champion with the fake legs. 

Not that anyone ever beat you. Sure, you took a few hard hits and occasionally there were weekends you swore that the money and adrenaline weren’t worth the soreness you felt. 

But hey, a girl has gotta live. 

It is probably through these scummy channels that you get contacted by The Agency. 

As far as you know, this group, they don’t have an official name. Or perhaps they decided that “The Agency” was a good enough moniker. Plenty subtle. 

Their main contact, a short bald man with intricate tattoos of beetles all over his arms, knocks on your door. 

You remember wondering right after the meeting how they found your address. After starting work with them, you realized that was the least of their abilities. 

He said they work for pushing “desired products” and occasionally “convincing” people or helping them “disappear.” They could use someone with your skills. 

“And after seeing you in the ring, it makes me think you would have few qualms about inflicting violence on someone,” he says, grinning. 

You raise your eyebrow. You can’t say you ever seriously contemplated getting into underground mercenary work, but then again, does anyone? 

“Would I have to kill people?” 

He nods, gravely. “Sometimes, that is just the messiness our business. But really, if you think about it, is also the messiness of the world. Thousands of people die every day no matter what. What’s a few more?” 

You ask when you can start.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
You’re 24. It’s been a hectic few years. Your rank as an athlete is at an all-time low but as an assassin you are thriving. 

With a few strings pulled, you’ve managed to get your legs even lighter so when you run it’s like cutting the air. You become known for swift kills and leaving the scene quickly, never being suspected. 

Your code name is ‘Cheetah.’ You wanted it to be ‘Gazelle’ still liking how pretty it was, along with the potential irony of it all. But you figure it is best to put those days behind you. 

But despite the people you kill, despite the money you earn and the advancements you can make of your legs, it begins to bore you. When you travel you barely get to see the countries you go to, because you need to make a swift escape after taking out your mark. You make contacts with various spy organizations, the KGB, and mafia groups around the world. 

You think it would be interesting to leave behind the untamed underground world you’re part of and instead work for an actual organization. Maybe go into covert operations.

It could happen: a disabled, woman of color becoming a secret agent. Who has murdered people. A lot of people. Some who were mostly innocent. 

Perhaps not. 

But most of all, though you always thought you liked being alone, it begins to wear down. 

Sometimes you just want someone to talk to. Someone intelligent. And who thinks you’re the coolest (because you are). Not in a romantic way or anything, that is not your bag. 

Maybe you just want to feel like you’re part of something.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
You get contacted by this guy. He’s a wealthy a billionaire. You’ve heard about him, use his technology. You know he’s supposed to be a genius. 

His name is Richmond Valentine. 

When you get asked to meet with him, you figure one of two things: 1) as a powerful man he probably has enemies. He wants someone taken out. Or 2) as a powerful man with enemies, he is probably paranoid and is worried someone is going to take a hit on him, and wants a bodyguard. 

Sure, later you found out it was closer to the second option. But there is more to it than that. 

You make it to the address given to you: one of his many homes, you’re sure of it. This one happens to be by the beach. According to your research, there is no public record of this property, meaning he probably bought or built it anonymously. You’re a little wary at first, lightly touching your leg where you have hidden your gun and knives, in case things go wrong. You have enemies too, and this could be a set up. 

To your surprise, he opens the door himself. He is dressed in one of the signature track jackets you’ve seen him in, this one a peach color. His designer clear frames are pushed all way up the bridge of his nose. 

“Why hello there Ms. Cheetah,” he says with a smile and his trademark lisp. 

“It’s just ‘Cheetah’” you say coolly, trying to size this guy up. 

“Ah of course. It’s just one those code names all you hitmen have. Or in your case, hitwoman.” 

You continue to stare at him. 

“Man, you’re the real deal,” he says, laughing. “So serious, all stoic and shit. But please, do come in.” He opens the door wider and extends his arm for the appropriate gesture. 

You thank him and walk past him. You can feel his eyes on your legs: you’re used to it. However, there is something different than the usual mix of curiosity and disturbance that plague most people upon seeing you. His stare is more…calculating. 

He leads you to the patio of the house, where tasteful wooden furniture is set up, along with a pitcher of a pink and orange drink, and two glasses garnished with a slice of lemon placed at two of the seats. You glance around: there seems to be no other human presence around, not even staff that must keep the place as impeccable as it is and make these cute little drinks. 

“Are we alone?” you ask as he sits down. 

He looks up at you over his thick glasses and smiles. “I have a small staff up here, but I sent them out.” 

He leans over to pour himself a drink. “But my chef did leave me with the recipe to make this delightful cocktail.” He talks a long sip from his straw, his lips scrunched to truly savor the experience, and then releases his straw with an “ah!” 

“Now THAT is a good Tokyo Sunset.” His pointed finger indicates for you to enjoy your drink as well. 

“I rarely drink,” you say. You keep glancing out of the corners of your eyes; usually someone in need of your services is never this relaxed. 

You can’t trust him. 

But he puts his hands up in casual surrender. “I get it. You’re technically on a job interview.” He then flashes a smile. “We can celebrate afterwards.” 

You raise an eyebrow.

“And yet I still don’t know what the job I’m being interviewed for even is.” 

He takes a long look at you, and you hold his gaze. You’ve gotten used to reading people, figuring out their body language and such. It’s part of being an assassin. You can usually figure out if people are scared or uncomfortable with you, or if they think that they are the ones in charge. 

Which of course they never are. That’s just what they think before you take their lives by surprise. 

But with Mr. Valentine, you might as well be looking at a peach colored wall. The only thing moving are his eyes flickering as they study you, probably going over all the possibilities in his head, and how exactly to sell his mysterious job offer. 

You realize he’s not probably not as smart as everyone says. 

He’s smarter. 

“Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ve heard about you. The disgraced track star with no legs who became a mercenary. They say you are the worst.” 

You feel your eye twitch little; no one has brought up your athletic career in a long time. 

He leans in, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. 

“Which means you are the best.” 

You smirk at that. A little flattery never hurt. 

“I got big plans for the next few years. I need someone smart and stealthy. I need someone who can be elegant, but ruthless. How do you feel about blood?” 

“You remember what I do for living, right?” you say in a deadpan. “My code name isn’t just because I’m fast.” 

“Right, right,” he says with a wave of his hand. 

“See, I have no stomach for violence,” he continues, leaning back into his chair. “Even if I wanted to take care of, eh, physical matters by myself, the sight of blood makes me puke.” 

“Really.” 

“Really, really,” he says with a smile. 

“So you want a henchman.” 

“I want an assistant. Who can kick some ass when the occasion calls for it.” 

You stare at him. You can’t exactly say this was what you were expecting. 

“You do realize,” you begin, “that I am not without my enemies.” 

“And I can assure you that between my security and connections, no one will ever bother you. Besides, I get the feeling that you are more than capable at handling any fools who try to come after you.” 

You study him again, giving him your best intense stare. While most tend to shrivel once you throw that look, he kept his eyes level with yours. 

You lean over, grab the pitcher, and pour into your glass. However, your drink stays on the table. 

“You seem to have it all figured out,” you begin. “And I’m sure the pay is good.” 

You lean in. “But why would I really want to work for you? I’ve never been known to just follow orders, why would I start now?” 

There is silence, and then he laughs. He smiles wide, his eyes sparkling. 

“Because you are not just going to follow orders. I need a partner worth their salt, and I can tell within 5 minutes that you definitely are. And if I am going to change his goddamn planet for the better, I need someone like you.” 

Change the planet for the better, huh? Looking at him, you can tell he means it, believes it wholeheartedly. 

And you believe it too. No way are you missing out on whatever he has in store. 

You finally take hold of your glass and raise it. 

“Well, then I’ll drink to that,” and you crack a smile. 

Mr. Valentine throws his head back in laughter, and then quickly clinks his (half empty) glass with yours. 

“Welcome to the team.”  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
It’s been a few months. You’ve heard his “master plan.” You think it’s so ridiculous it might just work. But that’s not what you are both working on today. 

He looks at you expectantly, with an excited look, like a child who just gave a hand-drawn present. 

“What do you think?” 

You look at your new legs in the mirror. They are shiny and pointed, with arches that make you taller and give you some bounce when you walk, but the structure is basically an unbreakable blade. 

A swipe with your leg or a roundhouse kick could cause some serious damage. 

“They are so dangerous. They are perfect.” 

He chuckles. “The perfect weapons for the perfect assistant.” 

You look back at yourself in the mirror again. You grin. 

Your name is Gazelle, just like you wanted. Just like you knew it should be. 

And nothing is going to get in your way.

**Author's Note:**

> This took way longer than expected.


End file.
